Pandora's Box
by Yukisora
Summary: The fates must have a sick sense of humor because, honestly, isn't this the most ironic thing you've heard? The guy dying has to teach that healthy bastard how to live his own damn life. Sora/Riku


**Disclaimer: **Kingdom Hearts the series and it's characters belong to SquareSoft, SquareEnix, Disney, and Tetsuya Nomura. This is a fanfiction, created by a fan for fans, and was written without the intention of monetary gains. This disclaimer pertains to future chapters to come.

**Summary: **The fates must have a sick sense of humor because, honestly, isn't this the most ironic thing you've heard? The guy dying has to teach that healthy bastard how to live his own damn life. Sora/Riku

**Author's Note: **Warnings for **homosexuality, suicidal thoughts, depression.** This story's main focus is NOT really the angst, because I'm not a decent angst writer. I specialize in the romance and drama. _First try at a darker tale. Please review. _

**PANDORA'S BOX**

By: Yukisora

**- + IN SHORT + -**

_**Prologue **_

**(Honeysuckle: Color of my Life)**

It was what he wanted, more than anything else in the world. It was something he was willing to give everything for. Something he was willing to sacrifice his self to. In a world where stress and expectations clawed like chains, controlling the mind, imprisoning the body...In such a world, he would have gladly refuted everything, for this.

Escape.

The feelings that were constantly brimming at the edges of his heart were getting to be so hard to bear. The perfectly controlled mask he'd mastered at a time he can no longer remember was slowly crumbling. The bits and pieces that have been tearing away as the years passed, the heart that's been slowly eaten by the world and everything in it, were starting to show. Control, in an uncontrollable world, is so hard to come by.

The walls had been white, the door white, the floor white, the desk white―everything in the room was a pure, pristine white that reminded him too much of the hospital bed he'd been in only a while earlier. The nurse, in her white uniform, and the doctors in their white lab coats, hustled and bustled through that hospital as though lives depended on it. No one had found it strange; not the staff, the patients, the visitors. Only Riku.

Only Riku found it strange that, in a place where lives were supposed to be saved, others faded away, not a single flash of life, of color, had managed to seep into these deadly white walls, floors, of white, white, white.

In this world of white, he had sat across from him, fiddling with his pen, those shrewd eyes, practiced to be all-knowing, regarding him carefully, a slight frown marring that otherwise friendly, aged face. He'd sighed a little, as though releasing some of the tension he'd absorbed from Riku, before settling further into the couch of the same white as the walls. Dr. Ansem, he knew, had been at his wit's end.

"Riku, if you do not work with me, I cannot help you."

Addressed, Riku had flicked his own emerald eyes back towards the rich hazel of his psychiatrist. Rather than the vibrant flash of a gem, as one would expect, especially with a face as captivating as his, fatigued shadows rimmed in blood-shot red slipped past the bangs for a second, before disappearing once again behind the curtain of silver.

"I've answered all your questions, doctor."

He'd actually made an effort to be honest. When his parents had found out, when the school counselor had deemed it necessary that Riku sought 'professional help', a blossom of something had clawed into his heart. For the first time in weeks, months, _years_, a tiny ray of sunlight slipped past the curtains of darkness, into his heart, to fester.

"Help," she'd said, the female counselor from his high school. Riku was in desperate need of help. She'd then smiled softly at him, eyes nearly oozing with pity as the phoniest smile, desperately trying to imitate understanding and reassurance, cracked across those lips. "You'll be fine, Riku. All you need is a little attention."

Riku hadn't known if what he needed was attention. He hadn't known what it was that he needed at all. If anyone asked him if he had a problem, if they happened to ask on a day when the teen was feeling particularly honest, he would've replied with a simple, "Yes." But, had they continued with the line of question and asked him what, exactly, his problem was, he'd then be hard-pressed in answering.

For, even Riku didn't know what, exactly, his problem was.

Fear of expectations? Of a failure to meet them? Fear of the future? Of the many unexpected unknowns that will inevitably be a part of his life? An overall disillusionment with the people around him? The things he believe in? Or, a disillusionment with himself?

He didn't know. He desperately wanted to know. So, when the truth finally came out, when everyone finally, _finally_ learned this truth, the feeling at the very darkest pit of his heart began to suppurate, to deteriorate. Claws had stretched, sharpened, tearing into wounds he never knew existed.

And then, he'd met him. His doctor.

That last part of him, the part that was left to rot, crumbled as those bloody digits, dripping, warm and wet, cut into that last part and spread. Perhaps that had been the cause of his insanity―the pain. The blood. Those damned appendages.

"Riku, I don't want you to think about what's the _right_ answer. Just tell me how _you_ feel, what _you_ think. Forget the textbook responses for a minute, okay?"

Looking into those eyes, shining with so much sincerity, Riku shrugged.

He so desperately wanted to fly away. To disappear into a world where no one knew him, no one desired anything of him, no one held any form of expectation anywhere. Where he can just let loose and be free. Where he can be anything he wants, and no one would be there to witness. Where he can run, run, _run_…and nothing but mother nature, the great Gaia, is there to see; to care.

"I want death, doc. I think I'm suicidal. This is about as honest as I can get."

But the sessions didn't get better. Despite telling the secret he'd been desperately keeping―yet, at the same time, displaying to the entire world―nothing had gotten better. His parents had doted on him, of course, lavishing attention on him like never before. His brother, the narcissistic bastard, had even flown back from Paris to see him. He'd wanted to "reassure" himself that Riku was still alive and well. Friends had visited, catching him up to date about the gossip in school, clucking over the latest news and events, and had reassured themselves that they, too, were doing everything they can to help their friend.

It had made Riku miserable.

As the days pass, as more and more attention were lavished on him, the more miserable he became. Was this what he was subconsciously after, all this time? Attention? After all that talk with the doctor, this was the final verdict of his predicament? He was an attention whore?

So he smiled. He reverted back to the textbook responses, mustered up the cracking mask and painted a new layer over the old, faded one. He widened his emerald eyes, to minimize the shadows, to maximize the gleam. If the red-rims from before were still present, there was nothing he could do about that. He joked, laughed, painting layers upon layers, covering the dark pit deeper and deeper until he very nearly convinced himself it was gone, almost normal.

Happy by day, surrounded by others, heartbreak by night, with only the moon as witness.

Like he'd planned, the attention soon wavered. His doctor told his parents that Riku's recovered, that things should now be fine. Relieved parents returned to their work, the relieved brother went back to being a bastard, and the friends soon became entangled in the webs of lies, the masks, and layers of paint again.

Nothing had changed, despite the "help".

The trickle of blood, the feel of the warmth gushing out of his veins, captivated him. Eyes trailed the quick flow of life from his wrists, a smile curling in those lips as one drop after another of elixir dripped into the clear water of the bathroom toilet. Red quickly disintegrated under the clear liquid, swirling in a strange, unpredictable pattern before reforming itself with the water into a translucent crimson.

Eyes, green eyes, narrowed.

Yes, nothing had changed.

Feeling like the glass in his heart was jabbing, painfully, against his rib cage, a clatter of metal sounded against the gleaming tiles as blood splattered against the spotless ground. A single hand, clenched, grabbed onto his chest as blurred eyes stared at the stream of liquid―the essence of his _life_―dissipate and reform in the toilet bowl.

When the world began to dim, when the familiar darkness began to overtake him, he quickly released a single breath. Swallowing proved to be too painful, so he spat into the bowl as he grabbed the blade again. Gritting his teeth, disregarding the momentary jerk of pain as he slashed the knife deeper into his veins, he smiled in satisfaction as blood―streams, rivers, floods of it―gushed out.

By then, he was all but blind. Falling backwards, head ramming painfully against the white walls of his bathroom, Riku breathed as his arms, laden with the heavy weight of both air and gravity, dropped onto the floor with a quiet thud. Death was rushing at him, it was all but roaring in his ears.

Nothing's changed. Will things change?

His mother would cry. His father'll probably scream in fury. Did Riku really want that?

At this point, it didn't matter anymore.

Tired. Closing his eyes, he watched the swirl of colors behind his lids dance. The heady feeling of the blood rushing at his open wound made him feel strangely drunk. Dizzy. Something, perhaps sweat, maybe tears, dripped down his cheeks as he slid lower towards the ground.

Escape.

Escape.

Freedom―

* * *

><p>His mother had cried.<p>

The moment the results came, before the doctor even opened his mouth, before he'd uttered anything, the look in those eyes had told them. So she'd cried. Tears had streamed down those cheeks, silent, helpless sobs ransacking her form as shoulders quaked weakly in time to her shaking back. Watching his mother curl into herself through the crack in the door, Sora had felt his heart break.

He'd desperately wanted to run out and hug her. To hold her against her heartbreak, against the break down that he knew would be inevitable.

But he didn't, couldn't, because this time, _he'd_ been the one to make her cry.

So Sora stayed, hidden in the shadows of the room, behind the door, away from his mom. The doctor, as though sensing his desire, reached out to help her out of her curled form, pulling her to a chair to kneel before her.

Sora wanted to cry too. To sob like his mother was sobbing, to quake like she was quaking, shiver like she's shivering, and wail his own despair against the world, against the Heavens, against the Gods. He so desperately wanted to burst with the unfairness of it all, that he'd very nearly threw open that door and _screamed_.

But he didn't cry. What would happen to him when the last rock in his life crumbled? The scream lodged itself somewhere between his throat and his heart, the tears within eyes that refused to liquidate. He didn't cry, he couldn't, because the moment those tears left his eyes, he knew he would break.

Desperate, he'd ran the moment his mother, still weeping, and the doctor, still murmuring reassurances, turned a corner and disappeared. The moment she'd disappeared from view, he flew.

He had to get away. Just a few moments. Just enough time that he could catch his thoughts, to lodge that scream forever within him, and to keep those eyes clear. He didn't have time to throw away the rest of his life, to throw away the most important moments to come.

The whirring in the bathroom greeted him the moment he opened the door. Sunlight crept carefully into windows designed to capture and confine both light and heat, illuminating each stall perched proudly on the left half of the room. Dashing towards the sink, hurriedly turning on the faucet, he splashed cool water onto cheeks that threatened to explode, swept past eyes that threatened to melt, and down a neck that bubbled from the constant need to swallow.

Gasping, pulling out of the water, eyes flew towards the ceiling of the white bathroom as, one breath after another, sanity returned.

It's so unfair.

It's so unfair.

It's so unfair.

It's so fucking unfair that he could practically _scream_ from the fucking unfairness of it all. Why? Weren't they good enough? Why, God, _why_ when Sora had been a fucking nice little Christian his entire life? His mother's almost a _saint_. Why is this happening?

_Why?_

It's so unfair.

He fell by the sink, head slamming against the pristine porcelain as the water rushing from the faucet licked hungrily against his bangs. Hazy, feeling his eyes close, Sora felt his legs give out beneath him. Arms reached out, grabbing onto the cold, hard edges as the water rushed up to meet eyes that were too far-gone to see correctly.

He'd always thought that he had a whole lifetime ahead. An eternity. Forever.

Squeezing his eyes tighter, swallowing as a sob rose, he released one single, shuddering breath as he tilted his head towards the ceiling. Bangs, saturated with the water from this hospital, flicked over him, splattering droplets everywhere.

To have that eternity robbed...to watch as, suddenly, that lifetime, that forever, violently tore itself away, as the final string unraveled into nothing, to a few meager months...hurt. It hurt like Hell.

It's not fair.

"This isn't..." Choking, hastily swallowing again, he released the sink to slide to the ground. "This isn't fair." Blindly, nearly instinctively, he grabbed at his cell. Eyes stared into the call list, as he pressed dial.

The ringing from the phone had never sounded louder.

"Yo, this is Roxas." Swallowing again as one of his brother's voice flowed through the phone, Sora fell back against the wall. His eyes closed as it seeped from the phone and into him. Normal. "Call me later because I'm never gonna bother checking this damned voicemail. BEEP."

Roxas never checked his voicemail. Even before their parents had separated, and Roxas moved off with their dad, the blond never bothered listening to what others left for him. He had once joked, saying that he wanted to see how many messages he can have in the damn thing before it exploded. Releasing one last breath, inexplicably glad that he could say it to someone...anyone...he swallowed, one last time.

"I've been robbed, Rox. Fate fucking stole my life."

**End Chapter**

_Flower meanings:_ Coral Honeysuckle – Precious, important

Please remember to review! Your feedback's what keeps me writing! Happy Reading!

**Edited-by: Wake-Robin**


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